The Best of Mad Swirl : 12.27.14
"I am happy to have some friends here in the kitchen." Charles Olson
••• The Mad Gallery •••
“Ministerio de Minestrone Mysterioso” (above) by featured artist Gerard Bendiks. To see more Mad works from Gerard, and our other contributing artists, please visit our Mad Gallery.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we gave a short poem to a long night, a long hope for a short light; we faced a tree toppler with his evergreen doppel-er; we indulged our minds with fancies cervine; we whipped a winter bummer with warming thoughts of summer; we wished Happy to you with a dactyl or two; we dined with folks prehensile, kept eyes on their utensils; we wore our resistance on our sleeves until our resistance wore us down to naked. Holiday Hijinx, good will toward men; come back, weekly Swirl, and we'll do it again. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
A Bottle of Jack's
“Resist it, don't turn to the spirit.”
I say to myself
each time we're guests at some friend's feast,
each time we host one and play Jacques a dit.*
Resisting the temptation from the flask,
the siren's call luring me into mischiefs,
the perfumed beverage flowing along dirty songs,
vulgar laughters, inconsiderate words,
uttered, whispered, shouted at the face of others.
The ghost-like liquid connects my brain to nothingness,
it leads me to dreadful dead-ends,
blocks energy, shunts capacity, kills sanity.
Jacques a dit:
“rave, stumble, make a fool of yourself,
fall into the intoxications of misinterpretation,
dizziness, restlessness, forgotten caresses,
oblivion, and sofa crashes.”
* Simon Says
- Walter Ruhlmann
(1 poem added 12.27.14)
editor’s note: Every man-jack, jackass jacks around this holiday jumble; when Jack says, we gotta do. - mh
Holiday Dinner in Our House
Mama tried so hard to teach us manners,
Most food you don’t eat with your fingers,
Close your mouth when you chew,
Say please when you ask someone to pass the potatoes,
Say excuse me when you get up to leave the table,
And eat everything on your plate before you ask for more.
But my brothers ate like ravening wolves,
Like they hadn’t been fed for years,
So every meal was filled with reminders,
Slapped hands that reached clear across
The table, occasional tears, some shouts,
Many threats. My sisters sat for hours
And stared at their vegetables
Willing them back in the bowl.
It never worked. My father ate in silence.
The rules never applied to him.
Occasionally he would yell at everyone
To shut up, then he’d get up and leave
The table. One night, he reached silently
For the last pork steak at the same time
That my brother, Darrell, tried to spear
The same pork steak with his fork.
Darrell stabbed Daddy’s hand, drew
The fork back in terror, started to say sorry,
When Daddy backhanded him, and Darrell
Went flying, hit the wall, slid down sobbing
While everyone else sat silent.
Daddy finished his pork steak,
Got up and left the table.
Darrell came back and sat down,
Finished his potatoes while we argued
Over who had to do the dishes
Until Mama told us all to shut up.
She scraped the girl’s green beans
Back in the bowl to save for another night.
We all learned a lesson –
Nobody,
Nobody ever,
Ever forked with Daddy again!
- Kay Kinghammer
(1 poem added 12.26.14)
editor’s note: Forking fun for some Holiday Hilarity! - mh
Yuletide Double Dactyl
Whirlingly swirlingly
Christmastime Holiday
Seasons the greetings that
Wish us good cheer
Plus more than ever a
Celebratorily
Merry Noel and a
Happy New Year!
- Harley White
(1 poem added 12.25.14)
editor’s note: Thanks, Harley! Could'na said it better - this we wish to all in this Mad Swirliverse. Happy Holidays to all! - mh
THE FAILING YEAR
Midwinter must not be the chilled wind,
Emptying tears from a child’s eye,
Shivering a mother’s fear. Midwinter
Cannot destroy the flame of youth,
Nor the embers of age.
This eve, heralding a special day,
Should not be a solstice of despair;
A longing for a Heaven that is not of Earth;
A craving for the end of guilt, survival
Of what was once a life, hearts frozen
Outside a world still full of compassion.
Midwinter would not be the end of warmth
If summer flowered in our minds.
Scattering seeds of our future onto these dark days
Is not an act of desperation
But an act of love for future generations.
- Derrick Gaskin
(2 poems added 12.24.14)
editor’s note: Defy the nay-sayers and the dooms-dayers; a little bit o' hope for the Holidays. (More subversive verse from Del on his page; witch meets Wenceslas - check it out.) - mh
If we were reindeer
If we were reindeer, rustling in the bushes
stealing berries and chocolate kisses
taking moonlight rides
on starry nights with candy cane rainbows
we would slide while ringing bells
and announcing our arrival
If we were reindeer, playing in the North Pole
while Santa Claus reviewed our calls
we’d find new games that would include
all of the reindeer that Santa retained
If we were reindeer, with fur and hoofs
that fly on Christmas eve
giving all the lovely children delight
landing quietly on roofs in mid flight
whispering good wishes to an occasional sight
If we were reindeer, love would be in the air
as we huddled together at the end of our night
singing love songs and cuddling with care
recalling moments we shared
on our once a year adventure
If we were reindeer you would be here
- Peggy Flora
(1 poem added 12.23.14)
editor’s note: All are welcome in the reindeer nation. Too bad its borders open just once a year. - mh
Sap Still Rises
Walking in leafy wood
Trees felled lie obscenely
Spreading dead branches
Waiting to seep into the core
Of their rootless earth.
The same fate awaits
He feels the drums pulse
In his tired brain
Exhausted from searching.
He feels a connection
He feels and finds
A disconnected tree
truncated lying there
Just a headless tree
Its body gone
A rounded layered
Wonder of the earth
Many cycles of life
Etched in its circles.
The sap still rises
He see this and is
Overjoyed.
©2014
- Sheighle Birdthistle
(1 poem added 12.22.14)
editor’s note: Merry madness, our dead decorations to celebrate life. Seasonal saps, we be! - mh
Winter Solstice
The ward clock
drips
the final
drops,
the window sees
the last light
dim and die,
but
on the
shortest,
darkest,
day of the year,
beneath
the frost,
below
the rime,
the land
holds sleeping secrets
of renewal and rebirth.
- Michael Corrigan
(2 poems added 12.21.14)
editor’s note: Winter iced and isolated; incubator, rejuvenator. Death is a sleep-through to Spring. (Another magic missive from Mick on his page - check it out.) - mh
••• Short Stories •••
This time of year, everyone has stories. The world is alive and lit with excitement, so much so that the easiest thing to do is become cynical. In doing that, though, you miss something more than cheap commercials aimed at consumerism, you forget something inside you. See, the important thing about this end-of-the-year holiday is that there is no one reason: it’s become humanity’s celebration—a celebration of humanity, the only real religion. This season is what a lot of people live for, but it’s also something that does too many people in, sadly. Unlike emotion pouring out in poetry, I think more than a few Mad Ones have stories to tell about this time of year, good or bad, but all beautiful. Narratives of both losing and gaining humanity among a loud, green and red lit celebration. These are the gifts they bring to us, gifts worth more than anything any Magi could bring. These are the gifts of humanity, to humanity. ~ Tyler Malone
Here's an excerpt from #eggnogriot by Tyler Malone
They wrecked the halls when the whiskey eggnog was snuck into the dorm after finals ended. Jeff was everyone’s hero. He bootlegged enough to of the ‘nog to keep everyone lit and alive until New Years. No one has to leave, joy demanded it. Parents were concerned within hours, though. Then snotty, boggy vomit fell from the dorm’s roof as young stomachs drank and danced for the first time with no one’s permission. Administrators attempted to force their way in but dismantled dorm beds barred the exits. Not even prayers entered.
Media and police park on manicured grass, stealing real estate from squirrels and undergraduates with guitars. They look at a dorm turned into a fortress, castellated with holiday lights in windows. Students didn’t need Christmas presents under trees to turn into laughing monsters, just Jeff’s eggnog...
(added 12.24.14)
editor's note: Why not shake the Christmas Tree a bit, let fall the old adages; peace on earth, goodwill toward men? This young visionary brought something tangible to the party; something impatient youth could touch and taste as real. He proffered party-fuel over platitudes and his masses responded with glee. Christmas saved from eggnog? No! Eggnog saved from Christmas! - mh
Here's an excerpt from New Year by Oleg Razumovsky
On the eve of the new year, Oksana invited me to her place to acquaint with her parents.
In the corner of the room stood the Christmas tree, and in front of it, right on the floor, sat Oksana dressed like a toy from a Department store.
"Well, you look okay, " I told her, not even daring to sit nearby. Her red hair and a resolute face were reflected in a mirror. It rained outside.
"The New Year with a thaw?” I asked as I noticed her father, a truck driver, sitting in a chair, drinking and smoking, emitting an unnatural odor.
I must confess that I did not know whether to join Oksana and decorate the tree or to start drinking like the rest of Oksana's relatives.
"Why are you so shy, boy?" asked their grandmother. I picked up a glass filled to the brim with the real stuff, drank it, and that very moment, an evil spirit left me...
(added 12.23.14)
editor's note: Welcome to the new year, same as the old year, if you do it right, that is. - tm
Here's an excerpt from Christmas Eve at Rosen's Deli by Donal Mahoney
...It's always quiet on Christmas Eve at Rosen's Deli but this time it's quieter than usual. Two regulars, Ruben Cohen and Ruben Goldberg, are the only other customers. They’re sitting at their usual spots at the counter, with an empty throne between them, facing each other in almost matching fedoras and arguing as always about the definition of certain Yiddish words.
Cohen and Goldberg have been arguing about the fine points—and not so fine points—of the Yiddish language for years with no sign of detente. Right now, the argument is over whether kunilemel and shmendreck are Yiddish synonyms, or not. Ruben Cohen says it's worse to be called a shmendreck than a kunilemel and Ruben Goldberg maintains that is not accurate...
(added 12.22.14)
editor's note: Good friends on a good season, over and over, that's the good life, no matter when it ends. - tm
Here's an excerpt from GI Magi by Johnny Olson
When word from our platoon commander came at 1800 hours saying that orders from Regiment was that we were to be heading out on patrol at 2000 hours, in full battle rattle, none of us were surprised. The Corps didn’t give a squat what day it was. Why would Christmas Eve be any different than Labor Day, Veterans Day, or the Thanksgiving that had passed while we were in this sandbox? The war machine doesn’t rest on holidays. That’s a reality all Marines accept. There’s no time for sentimentality in combat. The scuttlebutt was that the Iraqis were on the move, and their flurry of activity was making Uncle Sam and our allies nervous.
After the SITREP, we ate cold MREs and washed them down with stale water from canteens. We grabbed our packs and gear. Checking mine twice to ensure I packed all the bare essentials needed for a the night patrol: flashlight, toilet paper (taking a crap doesn’t stop for holidays either), gloves, Kevlar helmet, flak jacket, gas mask, MOPP suit, goggles, a few extra M-16 magazines, and of course all the superstitious belongings most of us carried but never spoke about. Mine was a rosary, my old-country Italian grandmother's.
By 1950 hours we gathered together, aligned in a loose formation, as ready as we are ever going to be to head out into the unknown. A few of us pondered on the whys. Why tonight? Did Saddam have himself a notion to finally cross that border and head into Saudi? Surely the Iraqis were aware what day it was and perhaps they wanted to catch us when we were feeling unmotivated and homesick. There are no cease-fires because it’s Christmas Eve. And surely our enemy couldn’t care less that most of us were Christians and that we saw this eve as a holy one. Will tonight be the night that the four-month stand-off comes to an end? Wouldn’t that be ironic: to be in this barren desert that some see as holy land and have to face the reality that on this night and in this place, we might be fighting and find out who's closer to God.
The call to get a move out was given. We dropped the talk, got into Marine warrior mode and headed out into the coldest of desert nights. The moon was almost full and all the stars the only playful things in the sky. Our shadows stretched across the sandscapes and our booted feet kept beat on the endless, waterless beach. Keeping our ears and eyes open, we scanned lands for any sign of any life. As I patrolled my eyes kept following one bright star that took center stage in the night sky...
(added 12.21.14)
editor's note: Christmas miracles are gifts from miracle workers. Not angels, though, just flesh-and-bone men and women. You and me. You and me can make miracles happen. - tm
•••••••
The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin' on... now... now... NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year, every decade, every every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the mad conversations going on in Mad Swirl's World? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be here...
Cookin’,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we gave a short poem to a long night, a long hope for a short light; we faced a tree toppler with his evergreen doppel-er; we indulged our minds with fancies cervine; we whipped a winter bummer with warming thoughts of summer; we wished Happy to you with a dactyl or two; we dined with folks prehensile, kept eyes on their utensils; we wore our resistance on our sleeves until our resistance wore us down to naked. Holiday Hijinx, good will toward men; come back, weekly Swirl, and we'll do it again. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
A Bottle of Jack's
“Resist it, don't turn to the spirit.”
I say to myself
each time we're guests at some friend's feast,
each time we host one and play Jacques a dit.*
Resisting the temptation from the flask,
the siren's call luring me into mischiefs,
the perfumed beverage flowing along dirty songs,
vulgar laughters, inconsiderate words,
uttered, whispered, shouted at the face of others.
The ghost-like liquid connects my brain to nothingness,
it leads me to dreadful dead-ends,
blocks energy, shunts capacity, kills sanity.
Jacques a dit:
“rave, stumble, make a fool of yourself,
fall into the intoxications of misinterpretation,
dizziness, restlessness, forgotten caresses,
oblivion, and sofa crashes.”
* Simon Says
- Walter Ruhlmann
(1 poem added 12.27.14)
editor’s note: Every man-jack, jackass jacks around this holiday jumble; when Jack says, we gotta do. - mh
Holiday Dinner in Our House
Mama tried so hard to teach us manners,
Most food you don’t eat with your fingers,
Close your mouth when you chew,
Say please when you ask someone to pass the potatoes,
Say excuse me when you get up to leave the table,
And eat everything on your plate before you ask for more.
But my brothers ate like ravening wolves,
Like they hadn’t been fed for years,
So every meal was filled with reminders,
Slapped hands that reached clear across
The table, occasional tears, some shouts,
Many threats. My sisters sat for hours
And stared at their vegetables
Willing them back in the bowl.
It never worked. My father ate in silence.
The rules never applied to him.
Occasionally he would yell at everyone
To shut up, then he’d get up and leave
The table. One night, he reached silently
For the last pork steak at the same time
That my brother, Darrell, tried to spear
The same pork steak with his fork.
Darrell stabbed Daddy’s hand, drew
The fork back in terror, started to say sorry,
When Daddy backhanded him, and Darrell
Went flying, hit the wall, slid down sobbing
While everyone else sat silent.
Daddy finished his pork steak,
Got up and left the table.
Darrell came back and sat down,
Finished his potatoes while we argued
Over who had to do the dishes
Until Mama told us all to shut up.
She scraped the girl’s green beans
Back in the bowl to save for another night.
We all learned a lesson –
Nobody,
Nobody ever,
Ever forked with Daddy again!
- Kay Kinghammer
(1 poem added 12.26.14)
editor’s note: Forking fun for some Holiday Hilarity! - mh
Yuletide Double Dactyl
Whirlingly swirlingly
Christmastime Holiday
Seasons the greetings that
Wish us good cheer
Plus more than ever a
Celebratorily
Merry Noel and a
Happy New Year!
- Harley White
(1 poem added 12.25.14)
editor’s note: Thanks, Harley! Could'na said it better - this we wish to all in this Mad Swirliverse. Happy Holidays to all! - mh
THE FAILING YEAR
Midwinter must not be the chilled wind,
Emptying tears from a child’s eye,
Shivering a mother’s fear. Midwinter
Cannot destroy the flame of youth,
Nor the embers of age.
This eve, heralding a special day,
Should not be a solstice of despair;
A longing for a Heaven that is not of Earth;
A craving for the end of guilt, survival
Of what was once a life, hearts frozen
Outside a world still full of compassion.
Midwinter would not be the end of warmth
If summer flowered in our minds.
Scattering seeds of our future onto these dark days
Is not an act of desperation
But an act of love for future generations.
- Derrick Gaskin
(2 poems added 12.24.14)
editor’s note: Defy the nay-sayers and the dooms-dayers; a little bit o' hope for the Holidays. (More subversive verse from Del on his page; witch meets Wenceslas - check it out.) - mh
If we were reindeer
If we were reindeer, rustling in the bushes
stealing berries and chocolate kisses
taking moonlight rides
on starry nights with candy cane rainbows
we would slide while ringing bells
and announcing our arrival
If we were reindeer, playing in the North Pole
while Santa Claus reviewed our calls
we’d find new games that would include
all of the reindeer that Santa retained
If we were reindeer, with fur and hoofs
that fly on Christmas eve
giving all the lovely children delight
landing quietly on roofs in mid flight
whispering good wishes to an occasional sight
If we were reindeer, love would be in the air
as we huddled together at the end of our night
singing love songs and cuddling with care
recalling moments we shared
on our once a year adventure
If we were reindeer you would be here
- Peggy Flora
(1 poem added 12.23.14)
editor’s note: All are welcome in the reindeer nation. Too bad its borders open just once a year. - mh
Sap Still Rises
Walking in leafy wood
Trees felled lie obscenely
Spreading dead branches
Waiting to seep into the core
Of their rootless earth.
The same fate awaits
He feels the drums pulse
In his tired brain
Exhausted from searching.
He feels a connection
He feels and finds
A disconnected tree
truncated lying there
Just a headless tree
Its body gone
A rounded layered
Wonder of the earth
Many cycles of life
Etched in its circles.
The sap still rises
He see this and is
Overjoyed.
©2014
- Sheighle Birdthistle
(1 poem added 12.22.14)
editor’s note: Merry madness, our dead decorations to celebrate life. Seasonal saps, we be! - mh
Winter Solstice
The ward clock
drips
the final
drops,
the window sees
the last light
dim and die,
but
on the
shortest,
darkest,
day of the year,
beneath
the frost,
below
the rime,
the land
holds sleeping secrets
of renewal and rebirth.
- Michael Corrigan
(2 poems added 12.21.14)
editor’s note: Winter iced and isolated; incubator, rejuvenator. Death is a sleep-through to Spring. (Another magic missive from Mick on his page - check it out.) - mh
••• Short Stories •••
This time of year, everyone has stories. The world is alive and lit with excitement, so much so that the easiest thing to do is become cynical. In doing that, though, you miss something more than cheap commercials aimed at consumerism, you forget something inside you. See, the important thing about this end-of-the-year holiday is that there is no one reason: it’s become humanity’s celebration—a celebration of humanity, the only real religion. This season is what a lot of people live for, but it’s also something that does too many people in, sadly. Unlike emotion pouring out in poetry, I think more than a few Mad Ones have stories to tell about this time of year, good or bad, but all beautiful. Narratives of both losing and gaining humanity among a loud, green and red lit celebration. These are the gifts they bring to us, gifts worth more than anything any Magi could bring. These are the gifts of humanity, to humanity. ~ Tyler Malone
Here's an excerpt from #eggnogriot by Tyler Malone
They wrecked the halls when the whiskey eggnog was snuck into the dorm after finals ended. Jeff was everyone’s hero. He bootlegged enough to of the ‘nog to keep everyone lit and alive until New Years. No one has to leave, joy demanded it. Parents were concerned within hours, though. Then snotty, boggy vomit fell from the dorm’s roof as young stomachs drank and danced for the first time with no one’s permission. Administrators attempted to force their way in but dismantled dorm beds barred the exits. Not even prayers entered.
Media and police park on manicured grass, stealing real estate from squirrels and undergraduates with guitars. They look at a dorm turned into a fortress, castellated with holiday lights in windows. Students didn’t need Christmas presents under trees to turn into laughing monsters, just Jeff’s eggnog...
(added 12.24.14)
editor's note: Why not shake the Christmas Tree a bit, let fall the old adages; peace on earth, goodwill toward men? This young visionary brought something tangible to the party; something impatient youth could touch and taste as real. He proffered party-fuel over platitudes and his masses responded with glee. Christmas saved from eggnog? No! Eggnog saved from Christmas! - mh
Here's an excerpt from New Year by Oleg Razumovsky
On the eve of the new year, Oksana invited me to her place to acquaint with her parents.
In the corner of the room stood the Christmas tree, and in front of it, right on the floor, sat Oksana dressed like a toy from a Department store.
"Well, you look okay, " I told her, not even daring to sit nearby. Her red hair and a resolute face were reflected in a mirror. It rained outside.
"The New Year with a thaw?” I asked as I noticed her father, a truck driver, sitting in a chair, drinking and smoking, emitting an unnatural odor.
I must confess that I did not know whether to join Oksana and decorate the tree or to start drinking like the rest of Oksana's relatives.
"Why are you so shy, boy?" asked their grandmother. I picked up a glass filled to the brim with the real stuff, drank it, and that very moment, an evil spirit left me...
(added 12.23.14)
editor's note: Welcome to the new year, same as the old year, if you do it right, that is. - tm
Here's an excerpt from Christmas Eve at Rosen's Deli by Donal Mahoney
...It's always quiet on Christmas Eve at Rosen's Deli but this time it's quieter than usual. Two regulars, Ruben Cohen and Ruben Goldberg, are the only other customers. They’re sitting at their usual spots at the counter, with an empty throne between them, facing each other in almost matching fedoras and arguing as always about the definition of certain Yiddish words.
Cohen and Goldberg have been arguing about the fine points—and not so fine points—of the Yiddish language for years with no sign of detente. Right now, the argument is over whether kunilemel and shmendreck are Yiddish synonyms, or not. Ruben Cohen says it's worse to be called a shmendreck than a kunilemel and Ruben Goldberg maintains that is not accurate...
(added 12.22.14)
editor's note: Good friends on a good season, over and over, that's the good life, no matter when it ends. - tm
Here's an excerpt from GI Magi by Johnny Olson
When word from our platoon commander came at 1800 hours saying that orders from Regiment was that we were to be heading out on patrol at 2000 hours, in full battle rattle, none of us were surprised. The Corps didn’t give a squat what day it was. Why would Christmas Eve be any different than Labor Day, Veterans Day, or the Thanksgiving that had passed while we were in this sandbox? The war machine doesn’t rest on holidays. That’s a reality all Marines accept. There’s no time for sentimentality in combat. The scuttlebutt was that the Iraqis were on the move, and their flurry of activity was making Uncle Sam and our allies nervous.
After the SITREP, we ate cold MREs and washed them down with stale water from canteens. We grabbed our packs and gear. Checking mine twice to ensure I packed all the bare essentials needed for a the night patrol: flashlight, toilet paper (taking a crap doesn’t stop for holidays either), gloves, Kevlar helmet, flak jacket, gas mask, MOPP suit, goggles, a few extra M-16 magazines, and of course all the superstitious belongings most of us carried but never spoke about. Mine was a rosary, my old-country Italian grandmother's.
By 1950 hours we gathered together, aligned in a loose formation, as ready as we are ever going to be to head out into the unknown. A few of us pondered on the whys. Why tonight? Did Saddam have himself a notion to finally cross that border and head into Saudi? Surely the Iraqis were aware what day it was and perhaps they wanted to catch us when we were feeling unmotivated and homesick. There are no cease-fires because it’s Christmas Eve. And surely our enemy couldn’t care less that most of us were Christians and that we saw this eve as a holy one. Will tonight be the night that the four-month stand-off comes to an end? Wouldn’t that be ironic: to be in this barren desert that some see as holy land and have to face the reality that on this night and in this place, we might be fighting and find out who's closer to God.
The call to get a move out was given. We dropped the talk, got into Marine warrior mode and headed out into the coldest of desert nights. The moon was almost full and all the stars the only playful things in the sky. Our shadows stretched across the sandscapes and our booted feet kept beat on the endless, waterless beach. Keeping our ears and eyes open, we scanned lands for any sign of any life. As I patrolled my eyes kept following one bright star that took center stage in the night sky...
(added 12.21.14)
editor's note: Christmas miracles are gifts from miracle workers. Not angels, though, just flesh-and-bone men and women. You and me. You and me can make miracles happen. - tm
•••••••
The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin' on... now... now... NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year, every decade, every every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the mad conversations going on in Mad Swirl's World? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be here...
Cookin’,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
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